


CTF-345

by hystericalselcouth



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Riot Club (2014)
Genre: Drama, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft-centric, Political Drama, not too much of Sherlock though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalselcouth/pseuds/hystericalselcouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“On the 17th of May, I want your Commander Operations to tell me what the final decision is that your man comes to before he sends them on.”</p><p>After a challenging election, Mycroft has to deal with a crisis that threatens the security of the United Kingdom in the future at the cost of it's security now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own anything, I make no profits.

**_ 0200 hours,16th of May _ **

Mycroft Holmes dropped the cigarette from in between his fingers and put it out with the heel of his shoe when he saw light from the street outside flow in and then diminish at the sound of a closing door. The crisp footsteps echoed louder as they came towards him and the man who was the British Government let out a long sigh. In return, the footsteps stopped and there was a clicking of metal. In the darkness of the deserted house a lone light shined, highlighting shark-like features placed mere inches away from Mycroft’s face. Unaffected, Mycroft’s own visage remained stoic. Charles Augustus Magnussen brought a cigarette to his lips and lighted it. The very next second, the long corridor was plunged into darkness once more and only a small orange ring of light remained.

“Your Prime Minister has some very interesting friends.”

The voice was sharp and heavily accented.

“Yes, so I am told.”

Mycroft was almost laconic in his reply.

“Oh, and congratulations on getting your man to power. Makes it harder for me, but this one time, he’s just the right man.”

The sound of a footfall resonated in the dark and Mycroft found hot breath blowing against his face.

“On the 17th of May, I want your Commander Operations to tell me what the final decision is that your man comes to before he sends them on.”

The rapid string of words was followed by a pregnant pause.

Then, the deep and firm tone of Mycroft Holmes was heard.

“He’s not my man, he’s the Prime Minister.”

With that, Mycroft pushed past the media baron and made his way to the door. As he stepped onto the street he rolled his shoulders and roughly rubbed his arm where it had contacted with the other man’s, before climbing into the black car which had pulled up beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have a list of notes for y'all.  
> 1) This story is basically a re-write of the Magnussen story-line from BBC's Sherlock. It's more Mycroft-centric and revolves around the British Government. (Although, if you see, I've just said the same thing twice in the same sentence.)  
> 2) The basis for the story is from facts of Government procedure I could find on the internet, so, yeah, I'm not saying that it all works this way in real life. For all I know, this could just be a whole lot of gibberish in the end.  
> 3) Obviously the names of some stuff in the story will be real, like the military command centers and whatnot, but it's nothing that's not already on Wikipedia :P  
> 4)...which brings me to the next point. I don't intend to offend any country or institution or person in this story. I don't mean to imply ANYTHING about people or situations in real life, this is just sodding anglophile fanfiction.  
> 5)My originality when it comes to story-writing is pathetic, so much of the story has been unashamedly plucked off of Sherlock, the Riot Club, the Sherlock Holmes movies and those BBC documentaries on the British Government. All rights go to wherever it is I might have (unconsciously) picked off ideas from. Also, the larger arcs of the story are just plain rubbish, really.


	2. Chapter 2

_** 0845 hours, 16th of May ** _

Mycroft Holmes pushed the pair of green doors to number 70 Whitehall and entered the Cabinet Office. He headed straight for the man who had held the title of Cabinet Secretary before the division of the office’s duties.

Terrance Smith was a man more than ready to retire. After holding the job for over two decades, the Cabinet Secretary reluctantly agreed to stay on until after the transition, once the new Prime Minister was elected. In his early seventies, the man was well-versed in the workings of government. It was his excellent memory and ability to simulate near-perfect designs and plans in an event of multiple possible outcomes to a situation that had brought him to the apex of the Civil Service. Mycroft had latched on to him ever since his first days in Whitehall.

He spotted the grey-haired bureaucrat pouring himself a large mug of coffee at the foot of the staircase and walked over smoothly, pouring himself a mug too. He murmured to the man, “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine.”

Without a hint of surprise, the older man followed Mycroft up the staircase and vanished into a room. Two minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the door clicked open again and the Cabinet Secretary walked back down with only a ghost of agitation twitching at his fingers.

A few moments later, Mycroft Holmes emerged from the room, briefcase in hand and disappeared into the maze of corridors which led to revolving pods, opening into 10 Downing Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points for anyone who spotted the West Wing reference.


	3. Chapter 3

_**1142 hours, 16 th of May ** _

Sherlock Holmes continued to type at his laptop when he heard the low thumps of his brother climb up the staircase to 221B Baker Street.

He didn’t look up when the familiar pin-striped suit and swinging umbrella entered the flat. He did, however, look up when the curtains were roughly drawn shut, darkening the room. Sherlock sat back and sighed impatiently.

“Is it so very important that you have to cut off the light supply to the room?”

“If you don’t cut off the word-supply to your mouth then you’ll have no light for the rest of the century,” snapped Mycroft.

Sherlock’s eyebrows were now raised in slight astonishment. An outward show of frustration was uncharacteristic of his brother. This must be quite the scandal his brother was dealing with, then. Mycroft’s head was hung low. He exhaled.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, “an election and now a crisis, you know how it gets when the two are in the same week.”

“I don’t actually.”

There was a pause, and then a tired, “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock mad himself more comfortable, shuffling a bit deeper into his sofa. His expression was almost pitiful, which had not gone unnoticed by his brother. In return, the elder Holmes rolled his eyes.

“What does he have now? Pictures? Letters?”

“A good friend.”

“Is he capable of friends?”

“He has the Prime Minister’s good friend.”

“The new one or the old one?”

Mycroft’s glare was more than enough for an answer.

A silence started to spread out in the room.

“How’s John?”

“Oh, he’s alright,” Sherlock answered dismissively.

Mycroft smiled softly.

“What?” came the harsh reply.

Mycroft stood up from his place at the table. In a hard, professional and unrecognizable tone, he asked, “How’re your friends in Russia doing?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his face, cold.

Without another word Mycroft Holmes left the flat.

* * *

 

_**1353 hours, 16 th of May ** _

Mycroft sat at his desk, gazing off into the distance. His eyes were glazed over and his face was expressionless. A soft buzzing under his hand on the table jerked him from his stupor and he immediately received the call.

"Yes, what do you have?"

After the reply came I from the other side, he cut the call and pressed the first button on the intercom.

“Amelia, send in the lawyers.”

* * *

_** 2008 hours, 16th of May ** _

_ Stranger’s Room, The Diogenes Club _

“Percy, you should have told me!”

“Mycroft, we weren’t even sure of it. We were very drunk and very young and we didn’t know what we were doing.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell the press? If so, you won’t last three days in there.”

“Who gave Magnussen the scoop? Surely, we can do something!”

Mycroft gave no reply and walked to the large window. As he gazed at the two men crossing the street below, he answered softly, “Eduardo Godolphin.”

The Prime Minister’s face fell and with a tired sigh, he poured himself some more drink. Mycroft remained impassive. After what seemed like an age, Percy Phelps, the newly elected Prime Minister asked, “Why do you think he did it?”

“Charles Augustus Magnussen. Bought over most of his company when it went bankrupt. He’s kept Godolphin under his thumb ever since. I’m quite sure your good friend wasn’t otherwise inclined to talk.”

“Is there anything we can do to …persuade…”

“You tell me.”

Phelps gave it some thought and then shook his head at what Mycroft was thinking. “I’m almost certain he won’t do it.”

“You can ask him to admit to it. We can just about handle it from there. The numbers in the polls will go down, but you’ll still hold office.”

Percy Phelps exhaled and rose, once again putting on the impeccable mask of a politician. He donned his coat and said, “Thank you, Holmes.”

Mycroft, however, still had his back towards him and didn’t say a word.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_** 0104 hours, 17th of May ** _

A pale and lanky man clad in a creased but expensive suit sat on a chair with a mobile phone in his hand. Beads of perspiration glistened on his face despite the uncanny coolness of the room he was in. Several armed guards stood guard at the door and meagre light filtered into the room through the lone window. The walls were dusty and the old wallpaper peeled off at intervals.

Then the screen of the mobile lit up, filling the room with a ghost-like white glow. The man pressed a button and raised it to his ear.

“Ed, I did tell them not to be too harsh.”

Eduardo Godolphin turned a weaker shade of white on hearing the voice.

“Percy?” he managed to croak.

“Ed, listen, we understand you had no choice, but you must consider the one option you have left.”

“I’ve told him! I’ve told him everything!”

The cut-glass Westminster accent trembled with helplessness.

“Ed,” the words were unusually calm, “you have nothing left. There is, however, one thing you can do. For me, for the Club.”

Eduardo did know what the next word that came his way would be.

“Confess.”

The man shivered visibly and closed his eyes. With what seemed immense difficulty, he pressed another button on the phone and Percy heard no more from his friend.

Eduardo held his head in his arms, breathing heavily.

* * *

 

_** 0437 hours, 17th of May ** _

Percy Phelps lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling of his dark room, the only sound to reach his ears was that of his wife’s soft, rhythmic breathing. Twenty-four hours ago, he had expected this day to be the best day in his political career. However, the call he had made in the small hours of the morning drove in a fear of inevitability that seemed to him the bane of everything he had worked for. He would meet the Queen later that morning, drive down to No. 10 Downing Street and walk through its black door. It was what would follow after that which scared him the most. He had heard of the infamous decision every new Prime Minister had to make, but he hadn’t given it much thought yet. He figured he would think about it properly once he got to Downing Street. With that, he coaxed himself to sleep before what he imagined would be the most trying week of his life yet.

* * *

 

**_ 0452 hours, 17th of May _ **

Mycroft had not slept for over 36 hours now. The beginnings of a headache pinched at his forehead and he had lost whatever little appetite he had. He sat at his bureau in his office, re-reading reports of what he had suspected a few weeks ago. He should have done this long before, but the threat if another minority government had kept him busy. He went through the satellite images on his laptop for the last time before patching a second urgent call through to the head of the Secret Intelligence Service for the day. This was to get very messy indeed.

* * *

 

_** 0517hours, 17th of May ** _

Neill Whitford was a man of secrets. The American public knew almost nothing of the man who held a staggering list of powers by virtue of his office. So, he was quite surprised when his cellular rang. Only three people had that number and two of the three normally used other channels to get to him. The third was his wife, who was at the local cinema. While he pondered on his mysterious caller at ten at night, he decided to trace the call. He was, after all, still at his office. Much to his astonishment, all leads to a possible location was hidden. Without another choice, he received the call.

“Mr. Whitford?” The accent was English.

“Yes.”

“This call is being made on behalf of the British Secret Intelligence Service. No record of this conversation must be made in the interest of future interaction.”

“Understood.”

“We have reason to believe that the Russian Federation has begun work on re-building its S-500s. Is the CIA aware of this?”

Neill Whitford paused before giving a rather vague reply.

“Your concerns have been duly noted.”

“Very good.”

A soft click at the other end of the line signalled the end of their conversation. Neill blinked once before calling his secretary.

“Get me the DNI and the White House, please.”

When he got through to the DNI, he immediately said, “Robin has confirmed that the Swan has flown.”

This was going to be a long night for the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

* * *

_** 0643 hours, 17th of May ** _

Roderick Oborne squared his shoulders and marched into the large room. He spotted the single figure seated at the far end and walked towards him. The man looked up from his phone when Roderick approached him. 

“Ah, Oborne, I see you’ve got yourself quite a first day as far as first days go.”

Roderick was familiar with the presence of Mycroft Holmes in Whitehall, much less the real man himself. He had never imagined his first meeting with him to be a _‘most urgent, Committee Room - B’_ summon. Mycroft Holmes got straight to the point.

“As Special Advisor I’m sure you’re aware, you will be handling a part of the Prime Minister’s public remarks. I need you to make sure that he doesn’t make any comment or remark regarding polls, policy, past history or media to anyone at all. If he does, let’s just say that you’ll have a very hard year and it won’t be my doing.”

The younger man paled slightly.

“I also need you to get a statement ready, not a word must be leaked. The Prime Minister will be accused of being a part of a hit and run dated almost a decade ago. Show me what you’ve got by eight thirty and we’ll take it further from there.”

Correctly reading the dismissal in the last sentence, he nodded briefly and then quit the room. He trembled slightly as if coming from the headmaster’s office.


	5. Chapter 5

  ** _1718 hours, 16 th of May_**

Downing Street was a busy place to be on the 16th of May. Civil Servants, Special Advisors, packers, electricians, household staff and innumerable cardboard boxes filled the rooms and corridors of the building. People moved in and out of rooms, files and documents strewn about in a helpless pool of mess. In all that confusion, Mycroft Holmes made his way to Terrance Smith, who was waiting for him in the lobby. It was his fourth visit to Downing Street that day and the progress on what was one of the most horrific post-election crises for a new prime minister was still minimal. The Cabinet Secretary adjusted the large box file under his right arm, phone held in the other. When he delivered his report his voice carried the stress of a repetition of the last three months.

“If the Prime Minister cannot present substantial evidence, then they will have to call a leadership election. There will be hearings and trials. Does he have enough proof?”

Mycroft considered his options.

“What if another person admits to it?”

“Surely, you aren’t suggesting we bribe and frame someone?”

However, Mycroft wasn’t listening, his brain was ticking away, spinning a web of unknowns. After a few moments of silence, he said, stepping sideways to allow a man carrying a large box to pass through to the next room, “Let’s keep the Chancellor on watch, and double-check him this time.”

* * *

**_0724 hours, 17 th of May_ **

_Whitehall_

Mycroft Holmes went through the several sheets on his desk. He jotted down notes in pencil as he went through them, stopping at the paragraph on the European Referendum. He quickly scribbled something next to it and looked up to see his assistant at the door.

“I think a call to Pindar should be made now.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

**_0736 hours, 17 th of May_ **

_Pindar Command Bunker, Whitehall_

“This is Mycroft Holmes. Update on Test 1, please.”

“Successful, sir.”

“Have you had any other communication from CTF-345?”

“The regular reports, sir.”

“Has there been any external alerts in the region?”

“Yes, sir. An unknown signal was detected near Northwood at 2345 hours last night, sir. No further signals have been noted.”

“Check with the Commander Operations if Vanguard has had any communication from overboard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft swore softly once he put the phone down.

* * *

**_1224 hours, 17 th of May_ **

“No, I need to know now! Just give me what you have. Okay. Does the President know? Okay. Do they feel any other way about him? Oh? Thank you. I’ll see.”

Sherlock typed in a text on his phone and sent it. He then picked up a large blue bag and left 221 B Baker Street.

* * *

 

**_1233 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Mycroft watched the black car drive into Buckingham Palace and the newly-elected Prime Minister step out with his wife. They waved for the cameras before following the escort into the building.

Inside, the Queen would ask the Prime Minister to form his government. Mycroft was sure that the Prime Minister would not have any difficulty during his audience with the Queen, but it wasn’t first impressions which bothered him. Eduardo Godolphin had not said a word to any living man.

Mycroft stuck his hand in his pocket to retrieve his phone.

_‘He plays his own game, one Russia doesn’t like. Might want to look into how much the Ruskies like their service-provider - SH’_

* * *

**_1248 hours, 17 th of May _ **

Mary Watson made her way into the kitchen to pick up a light snack before she returned to her book. Little did she expect the blue mass in the far corner of the room to rise and reveal itself to be none other than Sherlock Holmes. Mary did the very first thing she could and shrieked.

John Watson almost collided with the fridge as he entered the kitchen in a run. He found his best friend seated at the table and his wife seated next to him, glaring at him with the wrath of all that which made a woman a woman. John exhaled and relaxed visibly.

“Jesus Christ, you could have used the bloody door instead!”

Sherlock gave him no reply, but rose and started to shed the heavy blue material he had donned over his usual clothes.

Without preamble of any sort, he began, “John, I now have the chance to reward you with one final case before family life,” he paused, “expands.”

Mary now looked at Sherlock in an amused and only slightly offended demeanor. Then, she broke into a chuckle and laughed as she walked out of the room, leaving the two men in the kitchen. John watched his wife leave and then turned to Sherlock, who was already heading out in the footsteps of Mary. While he swished his coat on, which seemed to appear from nowhere, he asked, “What do you think of our new Prime Minister?”

“Rather a twat,” came the reply from behind him.

“Well, then you’ll have some fun with this case.”

* * *

**_1306 hours, 17 th of May_ **

“So, where are we going, exactly?”

John and Sherlock were fifteen minutes into their journey and had now stopped at a toll booth. As Sherlock started to accelerate again, he replied, “Northwood Headquarters.”

“And why are we going there?”

“Charles Augustus Magnussen. He’s a businessman of the worst kind. He owns several news dailies and television channels across Europe and blackmails his way in and out of power. He’s within the grasp of the law, but isn’t, at the same time. It’s easy to understand why governments want him on their side, although I’m certain he’s incapable of choosing any side but his own.”

Sherlock spewed out these words in utter disgust.

“I still don’t know why we’re going there.”

“He has our Prime Minister’s friend.”

“What? At Northwood Headquarters?”

“No, in his list of informants.”

“Are we going to get him, then?”

Ignoring John’s last question Sherlock continued, “You must have heard of the Prime Minister’s history at Oxford in the news.”

“Yeah, that Riot Club, wasn’t it? It had almost a week of publicity. Hang on, was that Magnussen?”

“Might have been, given what we have on our hands now.”

“And pray tell,” John asked, irritated, “what do we have on our hands now?”

“A Prime Minister’s possible criminal record.”

John was silent for a while.

“How bad?”

“The club members were apparently involved in a hit and run.”

“Oh.”

After some more silence, John asked, “But why does Magnussen want to leak the story? He’s obviously doing it for something, right?”

“The first news on anything the Russians want out. It’ll give his media ventures quite an edge.”

After a sideward glance at John’s blank face, Sherlock continued.

“When a new Prime Minister enters office, one of the first things he does is write letters to the heads of the four Vanguard nuclear submarines, giving them orders in a situation when the chain of command has been removed due to a nuclear attack on British soil. It truly is a command from beyond the grave. These commands can only be accessed and read in this very situation and the set of letters in destroyed when a new Prime Minister is elected. This secret decision can trigger an unprecedented advance in nuclear weaponry. The Russians, who are currently working on re-modelling their existing defences are almost desperate to know. It’s a far-fetched plot, even for the Russians.”

“And they’re using Magnussen for this,” John said aloud, “So, if Magnussen doesn’t receive the content of these letters then he’ll release the story?”

“Almost certainly.”

“And he won’t, you know, settle for anything?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“When does he want this, again?”

“The moment it’s sent.”

“And….we’re going to stop him, then?”

“If we can.”

“Well, I’ve got my gun, if it counts for anything.”

Sherlock smirked.

* * *

**_0316 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Mycroft paced the lobby while he waited for the commotion outside to die down. The Prime Minister was still giving his speech and he could sense the tension rise when Terrance Smith walked up to him.

“Everything seems to be in order. Has Pindar got back to you?”

“No, the team we sent in isn’t able to broadcast from CTF in Northwood.”

He resumed his pacing and silently mouthed the last words of the speech. Clapping began and then softened. The British Prime Minister and his wife walked into No. 10 Downing Street, domestic staff greeting and clapping them in. Once he had reached the end of the line, Terrance Smith emerged from his place behind the door and led him into the Cabinet Room.

“Prime Minister, there are some security decisions that have to be made before……”

Mycroft lurked in the shadows to wait for the Cabinet Secretary while the crowd dispersed.

“I’ve left him in there alone,” huffed Smith when he returned without the Prime Minister, “shouldn’t take long.”

Mycroft nodded quickly.

After what felt like the Second World War to Mycroft, the Prime Minister emerged from the room, paper in hand, looking slightly flustered and shaken.

Blood pounding in his ears, Mycroft watched Terrance take the letters and quickly jog into the deeper lairs of Whitehall.


	6. Fifteen Minutes

**_1320 hours, 17 th of May_ **

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes hopped out of their car, flashed their badges (which Sherlock seemed to have procured from somewhere, with Mycroft’s help, no doubt) and marched into the Northwood Headquarters. Sherlock led the way to CTF-345, the office of the Commander Operations, who was sat at his desk, staring at a computer screen with a gun to his head.

“Ah, I see you’ve made it!”

The voice of the only other visible man in the room rung, followed by a shallow echo.

Sherlock’s expression turned sour and just as he was about to spit something out, metal collided with his head and blackness rushed up to him.

* * *

**_1321 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Despite Mycroft’s calm appearance, his insides churned. This was a disaster he couldn’t control. A loud ping from his phone signalled the decision’s arrival at Pindar.

_Successfully transmitted from CO to Pindar CC._

He waited patiently, without moving or any sign of discomfort. His head was bent low, eyes closed.

Seventeen seconds later, a second ping went up in the air.

_Successfully transmitted from Pindar CC to CTF-345._

He waited another twenty seconds from for a third ping, but none came. His eyes snapped open and grabbing his coat, he rushed out of the room.

* * *

**_1323 hours, 17 th of May_ **

The Commander Operations saw the blinking message on his screen. He had watched Sherlock Holmes and John Watson get knocked out, gagged and be carried to away to somewhere in the building. He should have known something was off when they read the lone signal the previous night. Now, the Commander Operations had been held hostage for over twelve hours, unknown to the rest of the departments in the building and Whitehall. There were only a few men Magnussen could bring with him to carry out a heist of such minor proportions and massive consequences. The two men Magnussen had brought with him were occupied with their newcomers, and now only the media mogul and the Commander Operations remained in the room. His navy guards had been shot and carried away. He decided he would figure out how there was a break-in without a trace later on and focused his energy on how to deal with the gun to his head and a captor who was very aware of the message he had just received on the screen in front of him.

* * *

**_1324 hours, 17 th of May_ **

In a small glass chamber in the concrete basement under Thames House, Mycroft Holmes waited from the phone to ring. He was about to call for another line when it did.

“Mr. Godolphin?”

“Oh, I thought it would be Percy again.”

“He’s had his chance, Mr. Godolphin.”

“You must understand, I won’t be able to support my-”

“That’ll be taken care of.”

“You cannot force me to do this, no one can-”

“I’m afraid you’re not talking to the person you think you are. Titles, money, power, you cannot possibly say anything that can stop me from pointing to your guilt, whether or not you confess.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“You owe much to this country and I implore you to remember that. You will not do this for Percy Phelps, you will not do this for the Party, nor will you do this for the Riot Club.”

The few seconds of silence which prevailed was dangerous.

“You will do this for your Queen and your country.”

With the final, cold snarl, Mycroft set the phone down and walked out of the cabin.

* * *

**_1325 hours, 17 th of May_ **

“Commander, please,” said the foreign voice, “neither of us has time today.”

Unaware of what else to do, he opened the message. The snake-like man who had kept vigil over him leaned in and grunted. Magnussen deleted the message and rose, adjusting his spectacles as he did so. The Brit rolled his chair back and rose calmly, making sure not to jerk or give any hint of aggression. He walked to the barrel of the gun pointed at him. He looked Charles Augustus Magnussen in the eye. The forty-something Commander stood tall, his grey eyes were impenetrable and hard. His greying, dark curls highlighted his pale skin and cheekbones. His lips were pursed, chin jutting out subtly.

Before he knew it, Magnussen had his back on the floor, looking up at this man who now held his gun, gazing down at him, head cocked to the right. His eyebrows pointed upwards to his hair-line. The deep, gruff voice echoed when the man spoke.

“You know far too much, Mr. Magnussen. I am not sorry.”

There was silence after a clean, clear bang resonated through the walls, loud enough for the rest of the building to hear.

Pocketing the gun, Sherrinford Holmes cracked his back and rolled his eyes at the drama of it all.

* * *

**_1330 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Roderick Oborne scrolled through the web-page he was looking at when one of his colleagues barked at him urgently from across the room.

“Oi! Look at the Iris’s home-page! Now!”

The offices were a mess. After the Prime Minister greeted his special advisors, secondary staff and boxes of documents found their way there.

“New Nibs too!”

Oborne quickly opened new tabs and glanced through the many links and articles which suddenly brought the disaster looming above him ti full reality. His hands trembled as he punched in a message to Mycroft Holmes’s and the Prime Minister’s secretary.

* * *

**_1332 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Neill Whitford received a text message from a previous unregistered number.

‘Do you have a mole?’

Neill called the DNI to confirm.

“Robin knows best,” was all that he received in reply.

So, he sent a single-line alert to the Pentagon.

* * *

**_1334 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Mycroft walked into his office, unsurprised to see one of the Prime Minister’s special advisors waiting anxiously in one of the chairs at his desk. Mycroft patiently sat down, ready to hear what Roderick had to say.

“Mr. Holmes, the first reports are up on the internet. Should we-”

“Where is the Prime Minister now?”

“Erm…..examining the residential rooms.”

“Does he know?”

“I have spoken with him.”

“What did he say?”

“We wanted to wait.”

Mycroft looked pointedly at Roderick. The latter nodded, as if digesting the fact.

“Try something else now. Deny the charges. Some else has done it. Will the Prime Minister apologize to the British public?”

“The Prime Minister will not apologize for that which he was not involved in. The Prime Minister, will help with any investigation that may take place.”

“Stick with that.”

“Sorry, did I hear you say that someone else did it?”

“No, I don’t think you did.”

“Shouldn’t we bring in lawyers for this?”

“Build on this. By this time tomorrow we’ll be answering these questions or handing in our resignations.”

“Right.”

Roderick awkwardly nodded and left the room. When he was gone, Mycroft flicked through the messages on his phone. He thought of what he was to do next. He had already sent re-enforcements to Northwood, but had a feeling they wouldn’t be necessary. The country could very well be in ruins and he could do nothing but wait.

* * *

**_1335 hours, 17 th of May_ **

British soldiers had already occupied the hallways when Sherrinford reached the room from which a shaken John and an irritated Sherlock emerged.

“You took your time,” Sherlock muttered when he got to the Commander Operations.

“Sorry, duty called,” Sherrinford replied in mock apology.

Sherlock only scowled, gingerly touching the back of his head. The eldest Holmes turned to a shorter man.

“Mr. Watson, you’ve made my brother quite the sensation. Something after his own heart, I believe.”

John knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at all, but he was.

“Hang on, did you just say brother?”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve met Mycroft?”

“Oh, yeah, I have. Wait, another brother?”

“I’m afraid so. Your astonishment was much like Mummy’s.”

Sherlock grumbled about something along the lines of ‘my-room-was-pink’.

“Sherlock William Scott Holmes. Mummy always wanted a girl.”

There was a series of beeps from somewhere down the hall.

“Ah, that must be Mycroft. Better see what the Box has got for us.”

Before the older man took off, Sherlock grabbed his forearm.

“Where’s Magnussen?”

Sherrinford smiled sadly.


	7. The Last Leg

**_1353 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Walking back to where their car was parked, Sherlock’s phone suddenly pinged and buzzed. He pulled it out and read through the messages.

“Ah, it seems like the Russians haven’t found their man. They’ll start blaming people soon.”

John wordlessly got into the car with Sherlock at the wheel and the two headed back to London.

* * *

**_1406 hours, 17 th of May_ **

Mycroft was on the phone, talking calmly in Russian when Anastasia came in and left a note on his desk. She slipped out as quietly as came, leaving the sound of rapid words behind her when she shut the door.

“I have no control over what the Pentagon does. However, if you agree to our demands, I shall be able to withhold British support of the American claims.”

He paused to listen to the voice at the end.

“No, Mr. Director, I cannot disclose the information that I have. I can, however, confirm that we have Magnussen.”

There was a flurry of energetic words following this.

“So, it’s agreed, then? I’ll send in my man with Magnussen and in return we will accept nothing less than the suspension of Russian nuclear research for the next five years. I will have to refer you to foreign liaison to work out the details.”

A few words came in reply from the other end.

“Thank you.”

Mycroft set the phone down and looked at the note. He almost smiled.

_Commander Operations is ready with a report._

* * *

**_1420 hours, 17 th of May_ **

_CTF-345_

For the second time that day, Sherrinford Holmes sat at his desk, waiting for a message to pop up on his computer. This time, he didn’t have a gun to his head. He had received communication from the four Vanguard submarines which were waiting for his transmissions. Then, he saw the familiar red lettering flash on the screen. He typed in a string of encrypted commands and sat back. Seconds later, a dialogue box appeared.

‘Transmission successfully completed.’

What Mycroft lacked when it came to legwork, the oldest of the three made up in physical dexterity. While he wasn’t all muscle, he was very good when it came to weaponry. When he had shot Magnussen, he had planned out what he wanted to do very carefully, which was to incapacitate him.

The Commander Operations for the Royal Navy sent a final transmission back to Pindar for the day and rubbed his eyes. He unearthed a newspaper from the drawers beneath the table, opened it up and scanned through the headlines.

* * *

**_1935 hours, 18 th of May_ **

_Downing Street Press Briefing_

“Reports have been leaked from the Pentagon stating that the Russians are working on improving their missile defences. This comes a day after the Prime Minister entered Downing Street. Will No. 10 comment on its stance with regard to this development?”

“The Prime Minister cannot comment on this situation until further concrete details are released and taken into consideration. He would like to remind nations that trust and co-operation is necessary to maintain peace while the threat of nuclear warfare remains eminent.”

Roderick Oborne answered questions as he was told to. Word had come in from a minor government official that Britain would not make hasty and angered declarations with regard to these reports. He knew that the Foreign Office would consider this their first feud with Downing Street for this Government, but he was sure that the minor government official could smoothen things out. He signalled for the next question.

“Evidence of a hit and run has been released, which cost the life of a pedestrian in Oxford while the Prime Minister was a part of the Riot Club. Accusations made by witnesses claim that he was a part of the incident. Will the Prime Minister make a statement on the confession of Eduardo Godolphin?”

Roderick had gone through the morning papers before he had entered the briefing room. The national dailies were filled with two big stories. It seemed that the Pentagon had made full use of the British news cycle, spreading just enough news of Russian research to create a stir. However, that story couldn’t beat the scandal of the year. Front pages were dedicated to the hit and run, the Riot Club, its illustrious members and political bashing. Really, it was quite a spectacle, to have all the newspapers run one main story. Every house in Britain would see the headlines like _‘New Prime Minister, New Scandal’, ‘So, we’re okay with a posh PM, then?’, ‘Percy Phelps: How To Get Away With Murder’._ Roderick had said his prayers and now, he would face his designated challenge of the Governmental run. He really would have liked a kinder start with the press, but he figured it came with the territory.

“The Prime Minister welcomes the act of honesty on the part of Eduardo Godolphin, but denies any involvement in any such accident. As stated earlier, any investigations and hearings into this matter will see the full support of the Prime Minister.”


	8. Epilogue

**_0536 hours, 28 th of May_ **

_Unclassified Location_

A bearded, grubby man drove a black truck into a deserted compound somewhere in Eastern Europe, with three big cars tagging along behind him. In front of him were two similar parked cars, with their passengers positioned in a straight line, clad in black and holding guns. The driver stopped some distance away and watched in the screens on his dashboard as a limp mass was carried out of the truck by the men in the cars behind him and was left on the concrete before their foreign counterparts.

Once his escort turned around, the driver of the truck did the same and geared up for the long journey back to England.

* * *

 

**2025**

**_0937 hours, 14 th of October_ **

_Prime Minister’s Questions_

“Mr. Speaker, this Prime Minister may now berate the previous government for its shortcomings, but this party would almost certainly be sure that after ten years in the opposition benches he will find answering questions on a buoyant economy, which he inherited from the previous government, to be much easier, won’t he?”

“Mr. Speaker, the leader of the opposition really can’t be sure of anything after the details of his predecessor’s involvement in a hit and run, which he denied at the time of inquiry ten years ago, which was, I’d also like to add, when the current leader of the opposition was Chancellor, came to light today when the police released previous records and statements.”

Amid the roaring laughter from the side of the House opposite, seated somewhere behind the front row of the Opposition, Roderick Oborne, MP, sat still, thinking hard about a particular day ten years ago. He had a funny feeling a minor government official had something to do with that morning's revelation. In the end, he didn’t really protest against the Whitehall mandarin’s decision. Justice comes in its own time. Everything’s fair in love and war, and politics is both.


End file.
